


Weight of the Burden

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Friendship, Loneliness, Loss, M/M, Magic, Memories, Self-Sacrifice, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 15:02:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11923395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: Fragments of his life rush by, vibrant as light breaking through a prism. Memories form bright shadows in his mind, wonderful and terrible all at once.It hurts, to see them; Noct feels his own isolation like a shard of glass buried beneath his skin.But he knows – oh Astrals, does he know – that it would hurt worse, facing the emptiness of the Crystal alone.





	Weight of the Burden

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 4 of Noctis week. The prompt was "Burden."

The world inside the Crystal is nothing like the wide, open lands of Lucis.

It's nothing like the dry heat of the dusty earth outside of Hammerhead, all orange-tinged rock baked by the sun. It's nothing like the wetlands by Alstor Slough, where the air is hot and humid and the catoblepas graze on lakeweed and tip their heads up to low gently at the sky. It's nothing like the pristine, fine-grained beaches at Galdin Quay, set off by sparkling water, and it's nothing like the peak of Mt. Ravatogh, smoke making the sunlight twist and curl in strange shadows.

In all honestly, it's like nothing Noct has ever seen.

The world inside the Crystal feels akin somehow to his magic: chill and foreboding. It burns the way the ring on his finger does; it pulls at his strength, a hungry leech, the way the royal arms do. It leaves him shaking and bone-tired, like he's pushed himself too hard during a fight – like he's warped one time too many, and he can no longer even stand upright without feeling faint. Everything is violet light and empty places. There's a huge, blank field, where something ought to be. 

All that fills the space is Bahamut.

He stands like a statue, still and vigilant. He looms above the nothingness, a single landmark in a world of unending white. His face is so motionless that he seems a fragment of the world itself, a vast and immovable cliff face, a monument on a map otherwise devoid of features.

And after the first rumbling words of explanation, he falls silent.

His metallic face is blank and impassive, and though Noct tries to coax him into conversation – rarely at first, but with more desperation as the time slips by – he might as well be carved from granite, for all the response he provides.

 

* * *

 

Noct has always been fond of sleep.

Since childhood, he's had the knack for drifting off in strange places. His father discovered him curled up and dozing behind the throne, once, after the Citadel staff spent three long hours frantically searching every nook or cranny that might possibly hide a small boy.

Here, he finds that sleep eludes him.

When he closes his eyes, the shifting tides of his own thoughts rise up to greet him. When he tries to relax, the thrum of the Crystal's energy, burning in his veins, will not let the tension slip away.

He has always had particularly vivid dreams: of a small white creature with long, soft ears; of nebulous and foreboding prophecy; of Prompto's freckles across pale skin, like constellations in the sky, in hyper focus as Noct leans in to kiss him.

He misses the dreams most of all.

If he could dream, he might see something other than the endless sameness.

 

* * *

 

There is nothing, and nowhere.

 _He_ is nothing, and nowhere.

He's caught floundering in the ocean, drowning in recollection; every time he opens up his mouth to scream, more floods in.

Fragments of his life rush by, vibrant as light breaking through a prism. Memories form bright shadows in his mind, wonderful and terrible all at once.

It hurts, to see them; Noct feels his own isolation like a shard of glass buried beneath his skin. 

But he knows – oh Astrals, does he know – that it would hurt worse, facing the emptiness of the Crystal alone.

 

* * *

 

"Pull it together," says Gladio. "You let you guard drop."

Noct's still breathing hard from their last round, and his shirt's sticking to his back with sweat. It's too early to be doing anything, much less learning how to fight, but here they are, 7 am on a weekend, going through new forms for the massive great swords Gladio favors.

They're too big for Noct. His arms are still spindly; they're starting to shake from supporting the unaccustomed weight.

There's a bruise on Noct's side, now, just above the ribs. He can feel it blooming there and knows that later, he'll stand before the mirror, willing it to fade – willing himself to be stronger, so that it won't happen again.

Noct grits his teeth, and he stands.

He lifts the great sword, and this time – this time, he doesn't let his guard drop.

 

* * *

 

"Honestly," says a voice, mildly reproving.

Ignis is perhaps seven years old, but already in glasses and a button-up vest. He stands primly, with impeccable posture, as though he's a miniature adult.

"What?" says Noct, from his place at the table. His small legs aren't yet long enough to reach the floor, and he swings them idly while he scrapes the last of the chocolate pudding from the bowl in front of him.

Ignis sighs a deep, long-suffering sigh. He dips a cloth napkin into the cup that holds Noct's water, then sets a careful hand on Noct's cheek. "Hold still," he says. "This won't be a moment." 

When he reaches out with the napkin to scrub at the pudding still clinging to the corners of Noct's mouth, his touch is very gentle.

 

* * *

 

The boy behind him in line at the school library says nothing at all, but he practically vibrates with nervous energy.

Noct recognizes him, of course: the awkward, uncertain boy who'd tripped and fallen two years prior.

He's lost a bit of weight since then, but Noct still knows him by the curious blue-violet of his eyes and way he stands, like he's an imposition on the world. 

Noct thanks the librarian for her help – signs the slip that means he checked his books back in on time. Then he turns toward the door, and on the way past, he accidentally brushes against the boy's shoulder.

"Sorry," the boy chokes out, as his face goes bright red.

It's nothing close to his fault.

 

* * *

 

"Happy birthday," says Gladio, and slides over an open bottle.

Noct looks at it. Then he looks at Gladio.

"Beer," he says, flatly.

"What," says Gladio. "Got a problem with beer?"

Noct looks at the bottle again, damp with condensation. He looks at Gladio's face, newly scarred. He says, "You know I'm turning sixteen, right?"

Gladio snorts. He slings an arm around Noct's shoulders – ruffles his hair, like an insufferable older brother. "So live a little. You're the crown prince, not a porcelain doll."

Noct ducks out from under his hold and attempts a stare that he hopes is equal parts challenging and indifferent. Then he tips the bottle back and drinks. He swallows, and swallows, and swallows again, until it's empty.

When he puts it back down, Gladio's grinning.

The arm comes back, pleasant weight around his shoulders. The words are even better: "Knew you had it in you."

 

* * *

 

The living room is still a mess of boxes, all empty space and untapped potential. 

Ignis stands among them, surveying the tidy chaos. He adjusts his glasses – peers at Noct as though he's the final answer in a crossword that's been troubling him for some time.

"You're fine for the night?" says Ignis.

"I'm just tired," says Noct. It's been a long day. Maybe it is only four in the afternoon, but he gets tired easily lately – has trouble finding the motivation to do even the things he used to enjoy.

Ignis has noticed, he knows. Ignis noticing is a big part of the reason why they're standing here, in this empty apartment that will be his, away from the crushing press of the Citadel and its formalities and expectations.

"Get some rest," says Ignis, kindly. "If you need me, I'll have my phone."

 

* * *

 

It's past midnight when Noct comes awake.

The bedside clock's blinking 1:45, and for a long couple of minutes, Noct can't figure out why he's so warm.

His blankets are heavy and thick; his own body heat keeps them comfortable enough, most of the time. But tonight, wrapped up in them, he feels like he's lying beneath the afternoon sun.

When Noct rolls over in bed, he finds his answer: Prompto, sprawled artlessly, hair mussed and face peaceful with sleep. Prompto, close enough to touch, the pale lines of his body disappearing naked beneath the covers. Prompto, radiating heat like a distant star.

The night drifts back in pleasant snatches: whispered words, and panted breaths, and Prompto's fingers clinging with almost reverent desperation.

It occurs to him, as he slips an arm around his best friend and tugs him in close, that the world's most important mystery has been solved.

After wondering for three years, he finally knows how Prompto's lips feel beneath his, a warm yielding press and the tactile curve of a smile.

 

* * *

 

The memories come and go, and between them is the Crystal.

There is nothing here. There is no one.

There is only the vast stretch of eternity, and the endless echo of silence.

Noct knows the absence of the people he loves in the beats of his heart. It aches, and aches, and aches, in rhythm. He finds himself groping, time and again, for the places they should be – comes up short every time. He can feel their lack, like phantom pain from limbs long since torn away.

Noct touches his own fingers to his cheek – to his shoulder – to his lips.

There is nothing here. There is no one.

And when he returns, he'll have to give them up all over again.


End file.
